


The Journalist: Between the Lines

by lettalady



Series: The Journalist [6]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TJOURN 0.3 -- The Journalist: Between the Lines is the third time they've encountered one another, the second official interview to take place between Tom Hiddleston and our journalist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journalist: Between the Lines

“You didn’t!” Tom lifts his hand up to wipe away tears forming in the corners of his eyes – the result of his delight over your story, which was the point. You watch as he slips his fingertips just under the bottom row of lashes to wipe away the salty drips before he shifts and hides the upper portion of his face completely with the palm of his hand.

“Oh, I did.” You nod when he peeks through those deliciously long fingers of his. “My aunt and uncle still have the message from the Sherriff saved somewhere to pull out and play when I need to be put in my place, or embarrassed, or just when they want a good laugh.”

Tom goes back to hiding his eyes behind his hand – tilting his head back towards the ceiling as he laughs. Once again the pair of you have settled into a private room in a restaurant – a different place than the little eatery where the first interview was held. You hadn’t asked regarding the change in location. Last time Tom had mentioned something about wanting to squeeze in as much of home as he could, when he could – and since he’s been away for just over two months you’ve chalked it up to that line of reasoning.

His interest regarding holding a second interview had been met with roadblock after roadblock – pushing the subsequent interview further and further into the future. It had given you ample opportunity to readjust your Actor Armor, more time to recover from the aftereffects of that smile, those lingering looks, the hint of aftershave that you swear you can _still_ smell in weaker moments... All because he was chivalrous and offered, no – insisted, that you use his jacket to guard against the chilled night air at the premiere of his friend’s movie.

Not that your efforts to battle back against _The Hiddleston Effect_ have helped in the slightest. Here you are sharing humorous anecdotes. Once again he has managed to shift your Actor Armor from how you had it settled. Once again he has managed his way through your defenses.

“Anyway,” you continue, “that’s how I learned that some rules should be left unchallenged. So…” You roll your hand in a sweeping motion to hover it, palm up, overtop of the table before you, “Another nugget of information gleaned, as you say – which means…”

“Another few minutes devoted to work. Fine, fine. But you still haven’t told me what brought you here.” When you make a face he quickly tacks on another comment, “But a nugget is a nugget, no matter how small.”

You laugh, “Small? That was a middling-to-medium nugget, at least. Don’t tell me you didn’t experience at least the _slightest_ bit of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Mmm.” He rumbles, “More than a slight bit, of both embarrassment and amazement. But then we all have things in our past that make us shake our head and wonder what we could have been thinking.”

You see a blip of frustration pass across his features, most likely caused by his desire to continue down the same conversational path rather than talk further about his work. But he does relent. Tom manages to stay on track for the next few minutes, talking about the project that had kept him out of the country for the past two months and change. And then he pauses to litter in what feels like the billionth apology for the fact that the interview had to be held so late in the day.

You shake your head, “Tom. I told you, it’s ok. I wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise.”

“You said that, yes. But it follows after so many delays – I wasn’t sure if your boss…”

“Sam.” You offer.

He nods, correcting himself, “Sam – might have insisted that we meet, just clear it off the books.”

Delay after delay. You had suggested a phone interview but Tom, via his camp, had voiced overwhelming opposition to the idea. The random odd day or two that he popped back into the country and was available, twice during the long span of time away, you had been on assignment.

It had almost been a no-go tonight as well. Tom is a man very much in demand… And is a man currently sitting across from you with a hint of a frown coloring his usually sunny features.

Enough. Enough of the worrying. Enough of the concern. “Trust me. Sam didn’t force anything. And please stop thinking that sitting for a while is anything but appreciated. I was pushing through crowds of people all day. This feels nice.”

Tom presses his hand flat onto the table, splaying his fingers out wide as he presses his palm onto the smooth surface. As he leans forward, eyebrows arched, you are reminded just how dazzling his eyes can be when the light plays off them.

So very blue.

So very focused on you.

“What? But – haven’t you eaten?”

“That’s… not what I said.” You’re thrown by his reaction. Some days are just like that – you carry a water bottle and a few snacks and hope you find time to consume them. He probably experiences a fair few days like that himself. But then by his own admittance he manages to squeeze more hours into the day than most. He probably also benefits from aid in that arena from personal assistants and bodyguards, where you most definitely do not.

He counters, “That’s _exactly_ what you said. Well, between the lines.” He’s up and flagging someone down before you can attempt to protest further. Tom speaks to you over his shoulder, paraphrasing your words back to you. “You were out all day. This is the first you’ve sat down. We’re feeding you. End of.”

A hesitant agreement, and suggestion for lighter fare – perhaps a plate or two of appetizers – is met with a stern response as he accepts the menus from the waiter who quickly steps away to allow the pair of you some time to debate food choices.

“Just appetizers?” He lets out a harrumph, “You’ve had _what_ to eat today.”

“Well – since breakfast…” Accepting one of the menus from Tom, you purse your lips as you try to think back to the beginning of the day and any spare moments you might have had to inhale a snack. Actually the easier thing would be to check your bag for any missing bags of crisps or energy bars.

“Of?” He prompts while he reseats himself.

That answer you know right off. “Oatmeal.” You pause at his nod accompanying a skeptical look, adding: “And coffee.”

Tom holds his solemn expression for another second or two before his usual smile emerges. “Oh – yes. Nectar of the gods. Absolutely necessary. And since then?”

“Err…” You bite your bottom lip lightly, netting you an amused chuckle from his side of the table.

He unfolds the menu that you’ve set on the table before you and haven’t opened, flipping past the page of appetizers and motioning to the full meals. “Food. Feed that brilliant mind.” He glances down at his own menu but his focus doesn’t remain there long. Food, it seems, is not his primary concern now that you’ve agreed to eat something under his supervision. Now he’s determined to keep you talking. “I always find myself more prone to forgetfulness when I’m hungry.”

You smile warmly at him. “Distracted by craving?”

“Yes.” Tom holds your gaze.

You hadn’t meant it in reference to this very moment, but the lack of hesitation in his reply suggests _he is._ It sends a jolt through your system. If it had been an offhand retort, some sort of nodded agreement, perhaps after turning his attention back to the menu, it wouldn’t have had the same effect.

Why the hell is your Actor Armor useless against him? More to the point, are you honestly even trying to fight to hold it in place anymore?

Not particularly, no.

Though the temptation is there to look away, occupy yourself with perusing the menu, you maintain eye contact. “Well, we can’t have that. Break for food? Or do you want to keep going with the interview between bites?”

“Which would increase my chances of hearing the progression of your story? How the mischievous young woman turned into the journalist I have seated before me?”

You let your eyes drift down from Tom’s returned gaze to watch as he idly picks at the edge of the menu. You’re delaying telling him your whole life’s story because – because once he knows it the mystery will be gone, and so will he. Maybe that isn’t a bad thing. If he moves on, so can you.

You lift your gaze once more and grace him with a reluctant smile, “It isn’t all that enthralling a tale, Tom.”

He counters, “Every nugget I’ve gotten thus far speaks to the contrary.”

“Strategic storytelling.” You shrug, allowing a full smile to emerge.

The waiter approaches again, forcing you to make a quick decision regarding your meal. Plates of food ordered, you watch the waiter saunter away with the menus, your brief buffer now gone. When you turn back Tom is looking at you keenly. This is your own fault. You’ve dragged it out, made your life seem more adventurous than was while living it.

You expect him to prompt you further regarding the chain of events of your life, instead, when he speaks the subject matter is more geared towards current events. “I was worried that we would be back at square one, after all the time that has passed.”

“What?” You blink back at him, at the gentle smile directed at you.

Tom continues, trying to explain his statement. He leans forward, running his hand over the still-rolled bundle of napkin and silverware before reaching to wrap his fingers around the condensation-laden glass sitting just off his place setting. “That after two months you’d treat me as a stranger again.”

Oh you tried. Tried, and failed. His charismatic nature thwarted your attempts. You can see where he’s headed – he’s going to bring up your rule about not dating actors again – and this time, unlike during your first interview with him, your Actor Armor isn’t in place to help you refuse him. Admittedly, you don’t _want_ to refuse him. “Versus?”

He hesitates, “A person? Perhaps even a friend, if you think that possible.”

You falter ever-so-slightly. This time the blip of frustration is yours to be felt. _Friend_. The persistent attempts at a follow up interview, all the flirting that has ever taken place between the pair of you – all that for friendship?  “I think—” You try to choose your words carefully, and hide your disappointment by guiding the conversation back to safe territory. _Not_ having him pursue you was what you had asked for, after all. “I think your natural charisma makes it impossible to view you as anything less. It’s part of the reason why everyone you work with always has nice things to say.”

“To friendship, then.” Tom lifts his glass, waiting for you to do the same before the both of you take a sip of your respective drinks.

By the time the end of the meal comes around, the late hour demanding the pair of you part ways and allow the restaurant to clear the table, you are back to conversing with ease. It is a melded conversation, work once again scattered in the mix of humorous stories passed back and forth, though you are still holding certain key details hostage from him. If the friendship continues he’ll earn your life story, in bits and pieces, given time – that or he’ll forget the acquaintance, too busy with his own adventures to carry on learning about the mundane nature of yours.

Though you offer to put the bill on the magazine’s tab – you can explain the few drinks to Sam with ease – Tom insists on paying, as it was his suggestion to stay and eat along with the choice of venue for the interview itself. The added time spent may have afforded you the opportunity to gather more details to include in your follow up article, but that argument doesn’t sway him either.

The weight of your phone in your pocket, the whole interview recorded just like last time, pulls a suggested offering to the forefront of your mind as you gather your things together to leave. Right now all communications have passed through so many hands, your offices and his agency alike. If you’re going to try a friendship with him, if he is serious about it – it only makes sense…

In making your way to the door he is busy shrugging into his jacket so he doesn’t see you dig one of your business cards out of your bag. Progress to the front door is slow, despite being led by a member of the staff. You have time to rearrange yourself, ready to walk out whatever direction on the sidewalk Tom doesn’t take if this offering doesn’t go according to plan.

He pauses on the sidewalk with you, waiting to say last goodbyes, which is perfect for your plan. You have the contact card pinched tightly between your forefingers as you offer it to him, a tight smile betraying your nerves as you look up at him. “I know you’ve got the work number, or at least your people do. But – if you’re ever missing London…”

“Your personal number?” Tom is looking at the small card you’ve offered up, taking it carefully from your grip.

While he stares down at the type on the ridged piece of paper you babble and nod, “If – if you ever find yourself needing to hear the bustle of the city or something while you’re traveling... The number for my mobile is there, er, at the bottom.”

So there it is. You’ve offered up something that crosses over the boundary you tried to establish upon meeting him – a deeper personal connection than frivolous stories passed back and forth. There are so many varied ways he could possibly respond. He might call, taking care to use a public phone – a landline from wherever he happens to be staying – in an effort to safeguard his privacy. Understandable. Practical.

Or he’ll never use it. It’ll just be a piece of paper tossed aside after carrying it home in his pocket, or even dumped in the next rubbish bin he encounters between here and home. Not that Tom would do such a thing, but your theories are starting to compound upon one another – each one growing more outlandish than the next.

“Limited to use while traveling?”

When your mind had settled into panic mode you had become lost to your surroundings only to tune back in and try to catch up to his response. “Hmmm?” You blink your focus back to him, to his face and that dazzling smile you have no hope of escaping. Not now. That smile will be there etched into your brain, surfacing – as does the phantom scent of his cologne – in unexpected moments.

Tom grins at you, eyes sparkling upon the influence of the streetlamps dotting the sidewalk before the restaurant, “If I wanted to use it sooner rather than later? Say, in ten minutes time? A concerned friend calling to make sure you arrive safely home, of course.”

“Of course.” You laugh. “Um. Well, only given ten minutes I’ll still be in transit. You’ll need to give me longer than that to get home.”

You’re antsy now that you’re on your feet and out breathing in the night air. The longer the pair of you stand around the higher the chances are that someone will spot Tom and take a photo of the pair of you. Better to part ways, leave him to call in ten minutes time, if he so chooses. Tom has turned, following along with you the few steps you’ve taken down the sidewalk. It is in the direction of the tube station. Surely he hadn’t taken public transport to this interview… but then, if he lived just beyond walking distance, you wouldn’t put it past him.

“I um, parked in the restaurant lot. Did you?”

“Er, no, actually. I live not too far away, in that direction.” He pauses to glance in the opposite direction that the pair of you are walking. “But it is late – I thought I would see you off? Friends are allowed that, aren’t they? Gives me time to check that number you gave me, too. Make sure it works properly.” Out comes that cheeky grin again as he retrieves both your card and his phone from his pocket.

You arch an eyebrow at him, just barely refraining from rolling your eyes. “It is _typed_ on the card, Tom.”

He doesn’t catch your expression, too busy fiddling with his phone. “B’sides, this way you’ll know it’s my number when I call.”

When. Not if. _When_.  

 


End file.
